Things move behind me in hushed shuffles of productivity.
Me equals silent and still, unbending, steely weal.
A pinch of sadness found in frustration.
The loneliness of a crowd.
The wrought iron twists.
Eighteen dancing slips slide behind a single veil.
Nothing from nothing yielding some~things,
yet, remain unspeaking.
Starshine seen that died already.
And, I feel your shame.
Pride comingling with this being.
I miss my Funk and Wagners more than necessary.
Divination by dictionary.
Play things never put away.
Immaturity extracts blood from the stone.
Holed up in worry so much so a hole in the head could incorrectly~seem to be more becoming.
Faded and dusty.
I miss the mark.
Even my writing hardly starts.
Cold heat unseemly, waiting for skin to begin slowly peeling.
Too dark to share; too scared to hear.
Intimidation of trying shines in thine eyes.